Kheled-arnin is deserted of civilians, the streets, usually stuffed with cheerful drunken dwarves and happy celebrating gondorians, is now home to Dwarven Soldiers, clad in their thick armor, with an axe at their sides and gleaming silver pikes in their hands. They marched unspeaking and stoic through the now empty halls of Kheled-arnin, among the ranks you see dwarves that were clearly too old for fighting, and some little dwarves that could barely hold the pikes. The long, saddening line of dwarves marched, evenly, up the long stairs that led out of the stronghold, the civilians that hadn't fled to the lower halls, women, children, cried as the dwarves marched along the once joyful courtyard. A few dwarves looked back, sadness in their eyes, but quickly gained composure once more. The weather in the mountains that day was fitting, stormy and grey, but the dwarves cared not. Slowly, the dwarves filed out of the stronghold and onto the wet white stone that made the flat space in front of the gates, and there met the commander. The tall dwarf was adorned in Regal dwarf armor that in any other situation would have invoked the awe of the elves, but now the armor was splattered with black blood of the orcs, and in many places had broken off bits of arrows. The commander looked at the men, and shook his head, he gave orders and the army started marching once more. They marched through the dwarven paths of the White Mountains, passing through many villages, where more dwarves and men looked on with sadness in their eyes. In the distance black smoke rose from the otherwise grey sky. As the dwarves started drawing nearer, they passed the many dead bodies of dwarves and men, many children, but the commander led on. The bodies became more and more frequent, and the Mountains started turning black from fire and ash. The eyes of the dwarves looked to Minas Tirith, which now flew the banner of Mordor, and returned to the sight at hand. The dwarves, still a mile away on the top of a cliff, watched helplessly as a small Gondorian town was taken by the orcs, they left no single survivor, murdering men, women, and children alike, slaughtering them like animals. The dwarven army marched ever onward, watching as the world fell into anarchy around them, when they finally reached their destination they looked at the toppled walls of Minas Tirith, charred bodies littered the ground around the once proud city, orcs of all kind appeared out of the walls, a whole army of them. They swarmed into a big horde, their crude armor and rusty weapons seemed to become ever the scarier in the pouring rain and thunder. The dwarves, knowing what was about to happen, stood next too each other and lowered their Pikes,
Not a single dwarf returned back to Kheled-arnin that day.